Back on the Farm (or somewhere near it)

There is a lot to be said about coming from a small town in northwestern Wisconsin. I can close my eyes and smell the fresh cut hay making its way on the breeze coming into the car while driving down one of many alphabetized county roads. I can feel the cool revitalizing water of Trade Lake on a hot mid- summer’s day when the fish are choosing not to be caught. I can envision the rolling hills lit up with the flames of the fall maples as they set fire to the sky as golden round bails sit in rows in the foreground. I miss the way that people acknowledge you as when you pass by them on the sidewalk, and cafes filled with the aged drinking cup upon cup of the Christian cocaine while playing cribbage or reading the local paper that still informs you of who has been out of town and where they have been. I miss the way the fresh snow looks as it falls around you like you are standing in an enchanted wood dancing with mythical creatures that sparkle and shimmer as they float down to the earth. I miss agate hunting along the north Shore of Lake Superior looking for that translucent red rock tattooed with dark lines that seem to move together around and around like the rings of a planet. I miss the quiet. I miss the quaint. I miss home. I miss the farm, or at least somewhere near it.